


our nature is gentle (and the divine is mental)

by A_Starry_Night



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2020-10-05 06:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20484125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Starry_Night/pseuds/A_Starry_Night
Summary: London's skyline was altered. Less people, less cars, less fumes, and less industry was what John found when he stepped out of the ruins of Encore Enterprises. When had he found himself in an episode of The Twilight Zone?





	1. Brave New World

**Author's Note:**

> This story was influenced by three separate things: a specific quote from the Twelfth Doctor from Doctor Who (seen here at the beginning of the chapter); the song Your World Will Fail by Les Friction, which also serves as the title of this story; and finally the Star Trek episode 'Mirror, Mirror'. And if you know anything about the latter, then you already have a general idea what you're going to find here.
> 
> Please read and enjoy, and let me know what you think of it so far!

_"So let me ask you a question about this brave new world about you-- when you've killed all the bad guys, and it's all perfect and just and fair, when you've finally got it exactly the way you want it, what are you going to do with the people like you? The troublemakers. How are you going to protect your glorious revolution from the next one?"_

Twelfth Doctor, 'The Zygon Inversion'

~/~/~/~/~

The first thing that John was aware of when he woke up was how incredibly _fine_ he felt.

Having been amidst a literal explosion before he lost consciousness, he found this both confusing and troubling. It didn't stop him from feeling grateful for small favors, but it still stood that the instincts that had served him well as a captain in the army was screaming unease down his spine now and he would do better to listen.

When he opened his eyes he found himself rather disappointingly staring up at the plain checkered ceiling of Encore Enterprises, the scientific center that he and Sherlock had been attempting to infiltrate. It was mainly done as a last favor to Mycroft aimed entirely at John himself-- John would find out what was going on with Encore's walls and in return the British Government wouldn't lock the doctor up for John's attacking Sherlock. Guilt, no matter how vehemently forgiven Sherlock himself claimed he was, prevented him from turning Mycroft's non-offer down.

Sherlock had ranted about it for an hour, and called his older brother every dirty name he could for the next two; and then he simply stated quite calmly that he would accompany John on his task. Both the doctor and Mycroft had tried to convince the detective to leave well enough alone, but Sherlock grew steadily more stubborn and eventually followed John in heavy disguise, so artfully rendered that John himself would not have recognized him without already knowing it was him.

Encore Enterprises was, for all intents and purposes, a business that was attempting to manufacture electronic specimen-- namely the electronic bees to spread pollen, and the dummies that were planned to eventually replace the blue collar workers in factories. It was hellishly difficult to gain entrance into the fenced-off buildings, however; it was funded by an outsourced company of unknown origin, and even the British Government could find out everything they were doing.

It was also, Mycroft explained tersely, rumored to be a face for what Encore was truly attempting-- the manufacture of illegal firearms and newer, smarter bombs that could be smuggled practically anywhere. He could manufacture papers and fabricate a part for the doctor, he'd said, but the rest would be up to John to figure out.

'What of protection, Mycroft?' Sherlock demanded from his leather chair and his violin. His grey eyes were stormy as he glared up at his older brother. 'Extraction? If John happens to be discovered, what will be done to protect him from the fallout of your favor?'

'There will be a backup team, of course, waiting to be called into action if circumstances prove ultimately hostile. The latest in GPS tracking will be outfitted on Doctor Watson's person in the unlikely event that he is discovered and Encore decides it will be beneficial to remove him from the premises.'

'And what of _inside_, brother mine?' Sherlock stressed, his already sharp gaze sharpening even more when Mycroft hesitated just a moment too long. 'Absolutely not. You will not be sending him in there without help readily available in case something happens.'

Standing in the kitchen doorway behind his own red armchair, John himself finally spoke up. 'Sherlock, I appreciate your concern but this isn't going to be a battlefield--'

'Battlefield or not,' Sherlock snapped, still refusing to stop glaring at Mycroft, 'in this case you will need backup in the possibility that Mycroft's plans fall apart-- you know how often they tend to come back and bite him, yes?'

The not-so-subtle jab of the disaster of Sherrinford made Mycroft stiffen automatically, and his lip twisted with fury. 'Now see here, brother mine--'

'Stop it,' John interrupted him sharply. 'Both of you, just stop arguing. You're upsetting Rosie.'

The little girl, just past her second birthday, was indeed seated between John's legs and her blue eyes were wide and anxious as she glanced between the Holmes brothers. Sherlock caved first, turning to look instead at the little blonde-haired girl. 'My apologies, Watson,' he said sincerely, as he only ever was with her and her father, 'you have no need to worry-- I daresay your father will keep us well in hand.'

'Dada,' Rosie chirped happily, pacified by Sherlock's soft smile and the mention of her father.

This had been the first of several arguments that followed; John could understand Sherlock's reluctance to let him venture into Encore essentially alone. The mention of Sherrinford, now over a year behind them, betrayed the detective's lingering fear of losing John ever since the doctor had narrowly escaped drowning in the well at Musgrave. John himself still suffered the occasional nightmare of the water himself, accompanied often by the jeering voice of Eurus Holmes, and so found it hard to try and convince Sherlock to stay at 221b for the duration of his stay at Encore.

So now, nearly a nine days later and one Encore Enterprises infiltrated to disastrous results, John was somehow staring up at the ceiling of the building's basement and was somehow not dead from either the bullets or the explosion. Startled by the realization that he was indeed alive and not splattered in grisly pieces around the room he sat up and looked around-- and received a greater shock than the fact of his own survival.

The basement of Encore's experimental hall was deserted, perfectly sound and dusty. It wasn't a simple dusting either-- this coating was noticeably thick and strewn with cobwebs, and entirely undisturbed. John felt his breath catch in his throat as he realized that there was no surrounding disturbances either besides where he'd landed. Dust, as Sherlock was fond of saying, was eloquent-- it was impossible for it to lie.

So why in the _hell_ was he in the midst of an abandoned untouched room that likely hadn't seen anyone pass through it for several weeks at least?

A terrible suspicion seized him as he looked around, brought around by his last coherent conversation with Sherlock, but it was too frightening a possibility to contemplate right now. "Sherlock?" he called out, and he winced when his voice echoed loudly in the wide space. Stupid! It was absolute stupidity to give away position in an unknown setting, and John had an awful feeling that he was in exactly that position. His left hand was starting to tremble the longer he sat there contemplating, and he curled it into a fist to stop it doing so. He settled for swearing viciously in his head as he braced himself to stand, looking carefully for any telltale signs of injury as he did so. Pleased that it least appeared that he wasn't seriously hurt, if hurt at all, he stood and tried to look for any signs of what had happened.

It was eerily silent as he made his way through the dark hallways and passed computers and terminals that had clearly stood long-neglected; the building itself didn't look like it had been visited or occupied for a long time, although he was grateful for the lack of guards shooting at him and Sherlock. 

Where was Sherlock? More than anything his concern for his best friend kept him upright and moving, fuel enough to provide energy to reach the main section of the building. Still he saw no one, nor any signs of recent activity, and his heart rate started thumping painfully in his chest. He had to shove his hand in his coat pocket to stop it trembling. His pistol was a comforting, solid weight at the back of his jeans but it would be difficult to fire it if he continued to shake.

There was no sign of Sherlock-- nor even the remains of bodies, which only added to his growing unease. The glass doors and the front of the building lay shattered and dulled on the floor, and remnants of old fires and crude graffiti decorated the building where the homeless had slept and vandals had had their fun. In the dim lighting he could catch only the faint outline of an upside down cross and what appeared to be a squiggly-lined graph.

When he finally made it outside he almost wished he could turn around and forget; the high grade fence surrounding Encore was torn down and lying twisted, and instead of the several clean and stately buildings that had stood not far from its edge were partially torn down and covered with creeping ivy. In fact, a large number of the city's buildings that should have been standing wasn't. 

London's skyline was altered.

John stood in silence as he tried to make sense of what had happened. Aside from the skyline, the air was cleaner too. London was like every other major city where there were a lot of people packed into one place; but right here and now there was no surplus of car fumes or the smell of people, no overwhelming tang of industry. There was significantly more vegetation than he was familiar with, too.

Every sense was poised on high alert as he moved off from the remnants of Encore-- it was as in much ruin as everything else was. Not too far from where he stood he caught sight of a small, hunched figure loitering around the corner of one of the neighboring buildings. He couldn't tell whether it was male or female, or whether or not they were dangerous, but nonetheless he felt for his Browning and started on his way.

He was reminded of the old horror films that Harry had been so fond of watching while growing up, what with the ruin of the city surrounding him. Or maybe a Twilight Zone episode.

Probably more like Twilight Zone. His sister had always teased him that he would never survive in a horror film setting, anyway.

Of course, a lot of those Twilight Zone people had turned out to be dead by the end, too, so maybe he should stop with the comparisons while he was ahead.

There was still no sign of Sherlock. Well and truly nonplussed now he dug into his pocket for his phone, hopeful that his friend might have texted him while he was out. When the screen lit up, however, there were no new messages since the last one Sherlock had sent him (Tonight, 1a- SH. Sent 5:03pm.) Keeping half an eye on the person at the corner he typed out 'What the hell happened at Encore?' and pressed send.

[Message blocked.]

Blinking in surprise he paused where he was standing and read the message again. Like everyone else in the world he'd had texts that simply wouldn't go through, and times where data would fail (the railroads system one such example) but never had he had a message blocked.

And certainly never by Sherlock.

It took a moment for him to remember how to check the wi-fi options-- it was a newer phone and John was, by his own admission, not the tech savviest of individuals-- but it wouldn't connect. Even switching to only data did nothing.

Panic was threatening to choke him as his confusion changed to fear but he ruthlessly shoved it down. It would do no good to freak out here, not when he appeared to be in real trouble; he shoved his phone back in his pocket and took a deep breath. Feeling suddenly overwhelmed he ducked into a quiet corner of the nearest alley and collapsed back onto the grubby wall of the building, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a rush. There were too many unexplained variables here at play but he thought he had the proof that the rumor that had pervaded the halls of Encore was more than simply hearsay.


	2. Must Be True

_"Sherlock," John hissed in the quiet of the hallway, "just what_ exactly _has Mycroft got us into this time?"_

_In the inky darkness of Encore's basement labs, the tall thin form of Sherlock Holmes was a mere shadow amidst the beeping, whirring machines surrounding them. It was entirely too much like Baskerville for John's liking, mad scientists included, although he had been relieved to find that there was a distinct lack of glow in the dark rabbits. Sherlock's shoes squeaked softly every time he stepped and right now he was dashing from table to table to terminal to table again with night vision goggles of all things giving him the ability to see whatever it was he was looking for._

_They had made it to the belly of the beast. Both of them had been undercover here at Encore for a week and four days and it was only now that Sherlock had managed to filch a badge that would gain them access to the basement of the research center._

_"Oh, I'm sure my brother will be quite surprised to find out himself, John," came the swift answer, and of course the git would sound excited about breaking into a building that would get them both shot on the spot if they were discovered. "I don't suppose even Mycroft has any idea of what they're truly looking into here."_

_His Sig, smuggled in with him a week and a half ago, was clutched in John's hands as he peered around the corner of the door. "Yeah, but is what Matt was telling us possible? Glow in the dark rabbits and fear gas is one thing, but a_ multiverse? _Really? How the hell are we supposed to access it even if it's real?"_

_"Come now, John, even you have read about the theories pointing to such a possibility as multiple realities. Such theories are, I admit, lacking in much academic integrity for the most part, but there are select communities that legitimately do research the possibilities. We're standing amidst one of them."_

_John stilled. "Are you telling me that these nutjobs are_ right?" _he demanded. "That's--"_

_"Tantalizing?"_

_"Terrifying," he said flatly. "It's just terrifying."_

_"Then why isn't your hand trembling?" Sherlock's voice was smug as he asked this, knowing he had already won this round, and John silently cursed his adrenaline junkie habits but amused despite himself. Cock or not, after six years Sherlock Holmes knew him perfectly._

_"Touché," he muttered to himself, turning back to the hallway--_

_And a bullet smashed into the wall half an inch from his nose. He was too well trained to cry out from the surprise, but he allowed himself a low, vicious curse as he fell back into the room. "We've got trouble."_

_"Obviously. Just thirty more seconds and I'll have these files copied--"_

_Another spattering of gunfire barreled into the doorway, causing chips of brick to fly everywhere. "I don't think you have thirty seconds, Sherlock."_

_"They won't dare to fire in amidst their technology, not with the amount of research and money they've put into it. We still have a distinct advantage while we remain_\-- look out!"

~/~/~/~/~

It was, he admitted, entirely likely that he was hallucinating this whole thing. He could very well be bleeding out on the floor of Encore’s basement with Sherlock after they were discovered; or maybe it could be a simulation like in The Matrix films.

And there he went with the film comparisons again. He was really going to have to stop that, it was going to get him into trouble one day—he hadn’t even really liked The Matrix anyway. He didn’t know why a simulation would look quite like this, either, and so he chose to ignore his surroundings and—no pun intended—soldier on. As he straightened up from leaning on the wall, he started to withdraw his hand from his pocket and felt his fingers brush against something small and jagged. Frowning, he pulled it out to find it was a key, well-worn and patched with underlying rust. Looking closer he noticed the numbers 7114 engraved on its side. Despite having no idea of what it could be for, looking down at it now he felt his underlying unease shift outright into an odd sense of purpose. This was one coincidence too many in a long line of them, and he was decided on his course of action no matter what that might entail—the impossible included.

‘What have I told you?’ the Sherlock in his head reprimanded him. ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’

True. John had seen enough with Sherlock Holmes to know that it was true but still he found himself thinking, ‘Yeah, but you don’t usually say that about an entire alternate reality.’

He was tempted to work his way to 221 Baker Street (if it even existed) but common sense told him otherwise. It had been a long while since he had been discharged from the army but already he was sinking back into the mind of the soldier he had been, analyzing and planning in the face of this new territory. 

This was potential enemy territory—it was all too clearly a new battlefield amidst the familiar backdrop of London, and dear _Lord_ he hated the fact that a part of him was genuinely eager to meet it head on. His hand had stopped trembling long before he’d noticed it. 

His mind made up of what he would do, John nodded decisively to himself and turned smartly on his heel; he would need all the information he could gather about this strange new circumstance he’d been landed in before he made any other decisions. He could only hope it all wasn’t as bad as he feared.

His soldier’s instinct warned him to the fact that there was someone tailing him when he had traveled about eight blocks. The streets were oddly quiet and there was no sign that cabs came this way at all. The person following him kept to the shadowed overhangs of the worn-out buildings along the street, a quiet sure-footed individual who clearly knew the terrain. A homeless person? A thug looking for a potential mugging? Maybe. John kept to his pace and his posture as relaxed as possible, hoping to fool this stranger into thinking he was an innocent civilian unaware of the dangers of taking a stroll through a rough part of town. An easy target.

It was another three blocks before John took a right down a side street, cautiously looking over his shoulder when he was halfway past the latest derelict building to see that his shadow was gone—to catch him up ahead? They knew the terrain better, after all, and would likely ambush him up ahead where the roads intersected on the other side. He snuck a hand to the back of his belt and curled his fingers around the handle of his pistol, ready for attack.

When it came, he was almost too slow; if he hadn’t already been so alert it was likely he would have been struck without a fight. Be that as it was, the only warning he had was the shifting of space to his right and then the whistle of something swinging towards him. John both side-stepped and flung himself backwards at the same moment and a heavy rusted tire iron swung through the air that his head had been just a second ago. There was a muffled curse as his assailant moved to follow him, catching the edge of his jacket sleeve, and he swung a bony fist at John’s face. He managed to swerve enough that it didn’t hit him point-blank, catching merely the corner of his jaw, and even the stranger struck out again John grabbed hold of a thin wrist, twisted it to the right enough to bruise, and twisted the offending limb behind his assailant’s back. In the same second, as a sharp hiss of pain answered him, he withdrew his Sig and, clicking the safety off, pressed it against the stranger’s temple. 

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

It was like a switch was flipped; his attacker suddenly slumped in his hold, and he didn’t need to face him to see that the blood was quickly draining from his face—his face, because it was a young man who had attempted to brain him, with straggly brown hair and a face heavily scarred by what appeared to be smallpox and acne. He was so painfully thin it was too obvious even through the heavy layers of clothing he wore. His expression, so fierce and cruel just a moment ago, froze with surprise and then slackened with fear.   
“Cor!” he gasped, very faintly. He twisted his head, attempting to look over his shoulder and sneak a glance not at the pistol but at John’s face. The fear twisted to outright terror. The tire iron clattered to the ground with a sharp ringing that sounded far too loud in such a space. “I- I didn’t realize it were you, sir,” he stammered, “I wouldn’t ‘ave tried muffin’—p-please, don’t kill me—”

This was no playacting; he’d witnessed enough atrocities in Afghanistan to recognize the difference. As the boy’s confusing words registered, he felt his stomach twist with unease again and he wanted nothing more than to step back and put his pistol away, he knew to do so would be both stupid and dangerous. Instead, he abruptly let go of the boy’s arm, pitching him unevenly to the side, and kicked him hard in the back to make him skid forward. The Sig was up and pointed squarely at the boy’s forehead as the latter climbed painfully to hands and knees. “I’m not going to kill you,” John said lowly, “if you do exactly as I say, yeah? Look at me.” The boy was struggling to control his trembling, not quite able to look him in the eye. “Throw the tire iron away, far as you can.”

The boy whimpered. “Please don’ tell M-Mister ‘olmes about this. I weren’t gonna do it if I’da known it were you, Mister Watson…”

The way he was addressed was another shock to his system. (‘Mister’ instead of ‘Doctor’, and if that didn’t sound a hundred times wrong he didn’t know what did.) He managed to conceal his nervousness and confusion before it could give himself away. “What I do in my own time is my business, not Mister Holmes’s. Now throw that thing away.” He waited as the tramp did as he was told, and he didn’t miss the way how he flinched when he grew too close to John. Thinking quick on his feet, the knowledge of the mysterious key in his pocket a heavy weight, he waited until the tire iron was flying elsewhere before saying, “You know my address, yeah?”

If anything, the boy went even paler. “Y-Yesir.”

“Say it, then.”

“7114 N Northumberlan’ Ave,” he stammered out. 

“Good. You’ve answered correctly, so I won’t report this to Mister Holmes. Now get the hell out of here.”

The command was barely out of his mouth before the boy was practically running down the alley, making sure he was running sideways to avoid giving John a sight of his back. More shaken than he’d care to admit, John clicked the safety back on his Sig and tucked it back into his belt. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the key and looked again at its engraved numbers. Now that he had an address to match the key, he was one step closer to finding out what the hell was going on. He started back down the street and paused when he reached the intersection he’d abandoned a minute before, trying to orient himself with this changed London landscape. He knew exactly where Northumberland Ave was, but didn’t think it was quite the way he’d remember it. 

As he passed onto yet another street, a small rusted camera lens flickered, whirred—coughed with misuse—and then began to track his path.

~/~/~/~/~

The cab he eventually managed to flag down led him precisely to the street he recalled, but it was most certainly changed for the worse. The buildings here were of better quality than the ones surrounding Encore but they still bore the signs of less upkeep and more patchwork, and a majority were marked with more graffiti and lewd pictures. It sent a shiver down his spine seeing it, unhappy to find any version of his home in such straits, and his dour mood was not at all helped by the clear disquiet of the cabbie. The man kept only the briefest of eye contact with John in the beginning and now seemed to be trying his utmost to pretend that he wasn’t there. He was even more nonplussed when the cabbie told him there was no charge for the trip, and the tremble in his voice and the unease in his expression spoke volumes.

John left him go without a word, eager only to leave the streets and try to find a safe haven while he regrouped. His hand was automatically reaching for his phone to text Sherlock before he remembered it would be impossible to contact him… but maybe… 

Curiosity made him try to resend the message he’d attempted to send earlier, but of course the same message blocked sign blinked up at him and he pocketed it with a sigh. He turned to the door of the flat that the cabbie had taken him to and turned the handle of the door, letting himself in with his hand once again curled around the handle of his Sig.  
The camera from across the street twisted a fraction of an inch until it watched the door swing shut directly.

Once inside, John was taken aback by how clean it smelled. He fumbled for a moment to find a light switch but when he did the light flickered on to reveal a spotless flat a little smaller than 221b itself. It reminded him eerily of the bedsit he had lived in before meeting up with Sherlock, and it was cold and unwelcoming enough to feel like it too. This was a home that was nothing but somewhere to sleep, and he thought of the enormous difference it had to Baker Street or even the home he had shared with Mary. Military and doctorly life had instilled an innate habit of cleanliness and order in him that was very hard to break, but over the years living with Sherlock had softened his obsessive orderings of things, and having a small daughter had practically driven it away. 

Glancing carefully around he saw no sign of intruders, or bugs hidden away spying on his actions; he seemed to be alone for the time being. He walked slowly from the door and farther into the room, taking in the bland cream walls and oak floors, the little used furniture and sparse trappings. He made his way to what he noticed was an even smaller bedroom which was nothing more than an oversized closet, big enough for a small bed. Frowning, he drew his hand away from his belt and simply stood in silence for a long moment, trying to wrap his head around everything he’d seen so far. Avoiding the single window in the flat, he moved his way back into the main room where he noticed a compact laptop sitting on a low table in front of the sofa, its power light lazily blinking on and off in its sleep cycle. The brand (Medion) was one he was not overly familiar with, although it made his spine tingle with even more unease. There was something he was missing, something big, that he was seeing but not observing.

Curious despite himself, he picked it up and flipped open the laptop. He was prepared to face a page asking for a password and he was surprised to find that there wasn’t one. The laptop was as simple as everything in the flat was, clearly used sparingly and for only one purpose—the email bar to send and receive messages. Seating himself on the sofa gingerly, John clicked on the icon to bring the emails up and nearly choked when seeing what came up. 

Messages from an _S. Holmes_ to _J. Watson_ were a frequent thing, but the subject matter was widespread from the mundane to the horrifying. Missives about the latest underground growth in the black market, sly hints about a man and his wife being watched for criminal behavior, a rhetorical question about what should be done with someone who was too loud on the Tube. 

Halfway down the email address list, however, John choked out a curse and almost flung the laptop away from him. It was the only one he could see amidst all of the inquiries from S. Holmes, but the name was as horrifying to read as it was to hear: _Moriarty_. 

What the _hell_ was Moriarty contacting this universe’s John Watson for?

Now he really did shove the laptop away, disgusted and angered by the reminder of the man who—even years later—caused fear to curdle in his stomach and dread to pound in his veins. Unable to sit still now, full of jittery energy, he stood and paced back and forth for a long while trying to calm himself. He didn’t trust the outdoors yet but it made his skin crawl being in this place, with its cloying atmosphere, and with nothing better to do he began to tear into his surroundings. He picked apart the meager collection of books that sat on a shelf but found nothing suspicious, he went into the kitchen and scattered the contents of the cabinets but found only the barest minimum of canned goods; the main room held nothing that could answer his questions, which left only the tiny bedroom. He checked underneath the mattress, felt along the bottom of the floor, but there was no puckered edge of a hidden trapdoor he could find. It was only when he’d moved the bed to the opposite side of the space that he found a foot of oak board that wasn’t quite the same as the rest. 

Pulling it up from the floor he found himself looking into an alcove harboring a familiar looking black case, resting innocently atop a plain red blanket. John picked it up and flipped open the casing to reveal a set of three pistols with matching ammunition, all of which were studiously clean and free of any dirt or discoloration. Army issued, he thought, and meticulously cared for. 

Also, he realized abruptly, not British make. They were all of them Glocks. German design.

London altered. Half the skyline missing, changed from what he knew. Although it was dark, he had still seen the evidence and ignored it for what his brain was shouting was not possible. He’d seen far too much of the remainders of a severe bombing to not recognize when he was standing amidst the ruins of one, even if it appeared to have happened a long while ago. Before he could stop himself and leave the flat, John reached back into the alcove and grabbed hold of the blanket.  
Not a blanket. It unfolded too easily, a sea of red—a dash of off white—and finally a corner of black. A flag. 

The odd-shaped graph graffiti he had seen along the buildings in Encore hadn’t been graphs at all, he realized with a jolt of icy horror. It couldn’t have been so innocent a picture—not with the Glocks and the flag staring him in the face. 

And that of course was the moment when the door of the flat was forced open. As the doorknob smashed into the opposite wall, John leapt over the side of the bed with his Sig in hand, spinning on his knees so he was facing the doorway. In a matter of seconds four shadows came into view, armed and silent, but they didn’t shoot. Nonplussed and thoroughly done with everything now, John answered them with a single gunshot to the floor near the closest stranger’s foot. He expected a volley of gunfire to be his answer, but none came from them. 

Instead, the main door clicked shut gently and the clicking of expensive shoes on the floors came steadily closer. “Come now, Mister Watson,” came the familiar drawl of Mycroft Holmes, “must you make this _difficult_?”


End file.
